EDITION INFORMATION

I am a child of the 70s whose sense of futurism is informed by Star Wars (corroded, dusty robots) instead of Tomorrowland. A future with entropy and drug use and weeds growing in the cracks between the scratched plexiglass windows of the geodesic domes. Bits of yarn and dusty houseplants. If this sounds bleak, I don't mean for it to. Perhaps the healthiest kind of futurism is one that admits entropy and flux. Perfection is suspicious; worn and dusty can mean well-loved, too. Who loves the Stepford Wife?

The visual noise of my youth wasn't only Reagan and the Day After; it also contained optimism and complexity: Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Mork & Mindy, The Muppets, and punk rock.

When I make a giant mountain of handmade trash I am lost in the fun of making, and feel like a kid building a fort. In the end I must resign myself to the fact that I have just added more crap to the world, but this seems an inevitable part of being an artist and a human. I try to remain optimistic. I like art that is generous in spirit and amateurish, art that inspires rather than intimidates.

I consider art a practice of transformation. We cannot expect to make new energy; instead we must reinvent, recycle, and transform what exists already. Making art is my attempt to synthesize my optimistic vision of the future with my pragmatic appraisal of the world I inhabit.